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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25109269">There's No Place Like London</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/WildandWhirling/pseuds/WildandWhirling'>WildandWhirling</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Marie Antoinette - Levay/Kunze</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>(The usual from Margrid), F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, I'm telling you: This is LITERALLY as soft as we can get with these two, Kissing, Self-Doubt, Trust Issues, Vacation, Walks On The Beach, english weather, or at least.....kind of</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-07-06</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-07-06</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 03:34:05</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>5,107</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25109269</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/WildandWhirling/pseuds/WildandWhirling</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p><i>“It smells like piss, the weather’s awful, and I hate your friends.”</i><br/>Philippe loves London, Margrid doesn't. They try to find a compromise.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Margrid Arnaud/Philippe Égalité</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>3</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>There's No Place Like London</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/fallenidol_453/gifts">fallenidol_453</a>.</li>



    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Done for the Intimacy Prompts: "Morléans + Arm Linking, Nose Touching". I ended up combining the two prompts, but I'm definitely not discounting returning to the nose touching again and giving it its own proper fic. </p><p>Historically, the Duc d'Orléans went on a long trip to England after the March to Versailles, accompanied by his mistress, Agnés de Buffon, mainly because Lafayette was a little bitch who convinced him it was necessary in order to clear the way for him to take control, only returning in July 1790. It would turn out to be his last time out of the country. In terms of the musical timeline, it's pretty much impossible, but I WANT to believe.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>“You aren’t happy here, are you?” Philippe asked in the drawing-room of his London apartment, a finger resting beneath his chin as he looked out the window. There was a certain resignation in his voice that indicated that he knew very well that she wasn’t happy but that he wanted to hear it from her herself.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>London was stinking, the roads mixed with slick mud and shit that clung onto her shoes wherever she went. No sunlight was able to break through the thick gray skies that settled over the city like a blanket, and even though they were gradually breaking into the summer months, there still seemed to be a certain chill that lingered in the air. It was like the rain was reminding her that, just because it wasn’t out now, that didn’t mean she was </span>
  <em>
    <span>free</span>
  </em>
  <span>. The rain was always there, on the horizon, a storm always just a few minutes away. It seemed like people were always crowding the streets, walking briskly by, heads down to the ground.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Most of the time, Philippe’s friends spoke passable French, in airy, confident tones that showed just how </span>
  <em>
    <span>proud</span>
  </em>
  <span> they were to have been able to learn French for the sake of learning it, because it was as fashionable as a new waistcoat or a shoe buckle. (Then, they heard a Strasbourg accent giving the reply and she could </span>
  <em>
    <span>see</span>
  </em>
  <span> the confidence easing out of their faces.) When they didn’t, Philippe was a decent enough translator, sometimes leaning over to quietly pass on some information or comment, and she had to admit that there was a certain thrill to the two of them being the only two who could understand what the other was saying, even in a crowded room. There was the larger world, the dizzying constellation of Philippe’s acquaintances, friends, drinking partners, and former mistresses that seemed to be strewn across the city, and then there was their bubble, where she could make fun of the rich ladies and their stupid wigs and their stupid muffs and he could chuckle in response, sometimes running his hand along hers on the rare times they were out of easy eyeshot, stealing kisses behind heavy curtains and shadowed opera boxes like-</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Well, like </span>
  <em>
    <span>he</span>
  </em>
  <span> was twenty years younger. She’d never had the chance.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>But that came with a cost, her teeth on edge at the dependence on him, at the dependence on hoping that the person next to her spoke better French than she spoke English. Her mind could grasp a few English phrases, catching them like a lobster trap, dissecting and comparing them against the German she had picked up in her childhood, but it wasn’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>enough</span>
  </em>
  <span>. If he got distracted, if he got bored, she was on her own in a sea of strangers, not because he didn’t care, but because he didn’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>think</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>But Philippe liked it, dragging her along to every gambling den, drinking club, race track, and theatre in the city, so eager that she couldn’t even find it in herself to resent it too much, pointing out every single old acquaintance that he ran across (though keeping strangely silent on a few of the women). Most of his friends there at least spoke passable French, so she didn’t feel so alone at least, but then she went from The French Girl to The Duc d’Orléans’ Arm Decoration, with them barely even talking to her or noticing her at all, since, to them, she was just one in a string.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>She gave Orléans this much: He was pretty good at asking her questions in the middle of discussions, drawing the attention back to her. He’d learned from his past mistakes, at least. But it was clear that they didn’t care even if he did. He might as well have asked the table or the dinner plates what they thought of the latest opera, or the latest scandal at the royal court. (She didn’t care what Orléans said, at this point she suspected that, even if he didn’t have anything to gain by it, Philippe would still love the scandal and intrigue, because he loved a good spectacle too much, especially when he wasn’t embroiled in it.)</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Sometimes, she wandered off into the night in-between first and second sleep, Philippe not asking because he did understand, despite being an overconfident, aristocratic prick (she…alright, she liked him a little. But not </span>
  <em>
    <span>that</span>
  </em>
  <span> much), that she needed her space. London was a different city beneath the moonlight, less polished, blunter, quieter, even if neither London really spoke her language. She </span>
  <em>
    <span>still</span>
  </em>
  <span> got shit on her shoes (slipping on a bit of dog shit once on the city sidewalk and crawling home to a </span>
  <em>
    <span>very</span>
  </em>
  <span> amused Philippe had been a low point), but at least the streets were less crowded, she could be out and about without anyone nearby, she could walk where she wanted, when she wanted, at her own pace, or perch on a stone wall.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>He wasn’t annoying all the time, she guessed, but that didn’t mean she wanted to be with him </span>
  <em>
    <span>all</span>
  </em>
  <span> the time. Sometimes, she just wanted to be able to run through a mud puddle. And in Paris, she could do that. There were huge stretches of time where she could be alone, just her and her head in a private talk. But here, where they were forced together constantly, she had little chance to be </span>
  <em>
    <span>free</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Sometimes, Orléans would leave her alone to go for an afternoon when he would meet with the Prince of Wales or some other rich prick (for some reason, Orléans hadn’t offered to introduce her, she wondered why), and she’d be left to her own devices, but she couldn’t exactly </span>
  <em>
    <span>enjoy</span>
  </em>
  <span> it.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>She wasn’t stupid when it came to Orléans left alone to his own temptations, surrounded by a group of friends who were like boys egging one another to see who could drink the most. She wasn’t stupid about Orléans in general. Which was why she didn’t like him. She knew that he knew every single brothel in town. She knew that it was one of his personal favorite places to go with the Prince of Wales back in the day, the two of them dragging one another down. Just because Philippe didn’t talk about it didn’t mean she didn’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>know</span>
  </em>
  <span>, and the silences spoke more than a speech would.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Not that she’d care if he fucked someone else. Because she wouldn’t. He could do whatever he wanted, for all she cared. Whoever he wanted. It didn’t matter. Because they weren’t really together, as a couple, even if it was EASIER to think that in England than France, where no one knew her as Margrid Arnaud, Heroine of the People. No one knew her at all. There was nothing to lose by holding his hand or leaning on his shoulder carelessly after a night out. But it would be just her luck to get stranded in England because Orléans decided to chase after some tall, blonde courtesan.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>He didn’t owe her anything. She didn’t owe him.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>And the women that always looked him up and down with assessing, knowing eyes were polished, elegant. They wore heavy jewelry and heavier makeup, and there was always a certain familiarity when they talked to him, always elegantly dipping their heads as if everything he said was the most brilliant, hilarious thing in the world. They quoted from big books that Margrid had eyed in stores that she then got kicked out of. They spoke Italian and French (though, much to their surprise, she spoke it better, and she had to feel smug about </span>
  <em>
    <span>that</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Someone tried to come for her in her native language while coming for her </span>
  <em>
    <span>person</span>
  </em>
  <span>, they were going to get eviscerated.) They played the harp and the harpsichord, and God did everyone around them know it. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>They were everything she wasn’t.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Putting up with Orléans meant accepting that half the population of a given place she was in, whether it was London, France, or Timbuktu, had seen his cock at some point or another. That was...it was fine. It came with it. But it didn’t mean that she liked the </span>
  <em>
    <span>reminder</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Not that that ever mattered, because, at the end of the night, he was always safely back in his bedroom at the apartment that he had hand-selected the furniture for himself, and she was curled up next to him because the city was so </span>
  <em>
    <span>fucking</span>
  </em>
  <span> cold that she didn’t really have much of a choice, and her arm was slung around him so that she woke up holding him.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s alright.” She didn’t look him in the eye.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Margrid</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“It smells like piss, the weather’s awful, and I hate your friends.”</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>He nodded slowly, more to himself than her. “Better.”</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“Better?” She propped her elbow up on the end table. “I just said I hated your favorite place in the world.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I had gathered that. However, at least you were honest.” She snorted, and he continued blithely, “It’s a trait of yours I’ve always admired. Now we can figure out how to solve it.”</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“Solve it?” She lowered her elbow, her arm lying flat against the table as she looked at him in shock, “How?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He waved his finger at her. “I have spent too many years in this country to believe that there isn’t something here for anyone. We just haven’t figured it out yet.”</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>He was </span>
  <em>
    <span>asking</span>
  </em>
  <span> her? She thought this was going to be it. He was going to get pissed and leave her on the street, or else not talk to her until they got to France. Or...or he was going to sulk for the rest of the trip. He wasn’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>supposed</span>
  </em>
  <span> to ask her what </span>
  <em>
    <span>she</span>
  </em>
  <span> thought.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She rolled her eyes. “I don’t like horse racing, I don’t like gambling, and I don’t like drinking. At least, not around a ton of people. I don’t dance.” There wasn’t really a place in London society for someone like her. As persistent as Philippe could be, he was going to lose on this one. “I don’t like hunting. I don’t like fishing.” As she listed off every single one of his interests, it seemed clearer and clearer that, really, they had nothing in common. Why was he even </span>
  <em>
    <span>bothering</span>
  </em>
  <span>? (Why did her stomach sink at the thought that they weren’t compatible? This was expected, anyway. He was an aristocrat. As much as he could talk, as long as he could talk, he wasn’t like her. It was better to remember that so that she wouldn’t-)</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“You seemed to like operas, whenever I’ve taken you.”</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“But not the people who </span>
  <em>
    <span>attend</span>
  </em>
  <span> them.” It was one thing to listen to people warble in Italian while wearing pretty clothes for three hours. It was another thing to have to hear people talk about it afterwards, each of them pretending like God himself had given them some deeper insight into it. Just a bunch of rich fucks trying to talk over one another.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“But,” he pointed a finger, “You </span>
  <em>
    <span>do</span>
  </em>
  <span> like to walk. There are plenty of parks nearby.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“And they’re crowded with people.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Hm,” he tapped his chin, looking off to the side.  “That also eliminates Bath, which had been my next choice.”</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>How close was he to admitting that, as much as they sometimes had in common in Paris, England was a different world, </span>
  <em>
    <span>his</span>
  </em>
  <span> world?</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Then, he brightened, and she could almost </span>
  <em>
    <span>see</span>
  </em>
  <span> the energy come back into his body, and against her own will, she found herself finding it coming back to her as well, slowly, tentatively, creeping instead of slamming as it did for him. “I have the perfect idea.”</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>She was going to regret this.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><hr/><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>He took her hand, letting her grip onto his own as she made her way down the carriage steps, and it was stupid, because she wasn’t a lady, she </span>
  <em>
    <span>wasn’t</span>
  </em>
  <span>. She was a street rat who just happened to fuck a Duc once.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, what do you think?” He threw an arm outward.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>She stepped forward, her mouth falling open. “It….”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Spread in front of them was the ocean, a rich, vibrant blue extending for as far as her eye could see. A path laid nearby, chalky white and well worn, separating the sea from the green hills that laid behind them, the wind lightly rustling the grass. Puffy white clouds hung over them, the sky a clear blue that didn’t have the littlest threat of a storm to it. And the thing that really caught her attention, the white cliffs that framed the ocean, stark white and bright as a diamond. They were far away from the stink of the city, the salty ocean breeze filling her lungs, and she could have spent the rest of her life just closing her eyes, inhaling, and then exhaling. (She didn’t remember the last time she’d been away from a city, it seemed her entire life had been spent against gray stone and horse muck.)   </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>And the sun, however faintly, was </span>
  <em>
    <span>shining</span>
  </em>
  <span>, her body reaching out to the warmth with everything that it had.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“It’ll do,” she said, and she would have sold it better if her voice wasn’t still faint with awe.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“The White Cliffs of Dover,” he said, grinning broadly, knowing that he’d pulled another success out of thin air, and she couldn’t even be irritated at him for it. He’d earned it this time.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s been some time since I’ve been, so long I hadn’t even considered it. Is it far enough from civilization for your taste?” He offered an arm to her, his eyes flicking from her to the arm and then back again. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>There were a few people walking along the path, sometimes stopping to point at the boats that were scattered along the water, their billowing sails little more than dots coasting along the ripples in the water as the wind tugged them along its way, but there were no </span>
  <em>
    <span>crowds</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Just the rush of the waves and the faint, distant cries of the gulls as they squabbled over a fish.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“Close enough.” She took the offered arm, her own arm fitting nicely against it. The Duc d’Orléans had been left firmly behind in London, no one there would recognize them, or else care to. There, against the clear summer sky, they could have been any couple enjoying the sunlight. They could have been sweethearts who had only just been able to start courting, or two dear friends who knew one another better than lovers could ever know one another, or a married couple of a decade or more.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>So this was what it was like, she thought, to be able to just have a relationship with someone, to get to go for walks with them on Sundays and hold their hand without constantly feeling the shadow of the future hanging over her, the path crunching beneath their shoes.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Most of the time, she didn’t mind their thing being whatever it was that they were. It was better, really. Less to tie her down. No one expecting her home at a certain time, dinner ready and on the table. No one with expectations. No one she had to fit her life against. It was nice, sometimes, to take it for what it was. Less complicated. Less attachment.   </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>But that didn’t mean that she didn’t sometimes want to just have </span>
  <em>
    <span>him</span>
  </em>
  <span>, in all his irritating splendor. Funny, how it was. Not wanting to love him, the desperate, clawing desire for him to love </span>
  <em>
    <span>her</span>
  </em>
  <span>, wanting him to not leave, not knowing what to do when he stayed, even though this could only be a moment of time for a hundred different reasons, not the least of which was that </span>
  <em>
    <span>she didn’t like him</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Which was good, because liking him meant relying on him, when he would, eventually hurt her.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Maybe it was just wanting </span>
  <em>
    <span>anyone</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Wanting to be less lonely. Not that she needed anyone, because she’d survived up until that point just fine.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>She found her head resting against his shoulder, and it was too much effort to move it, her own head suddenly like a millstone. And it was nice, having Philippe’s shoulder there, warm, steady, quieting the thoughts in her head.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Anyway, it just made sense. Philippe liked his nice fabrics as far as costuming, velvet felt good when pressed against anyone’s face, so really, why wouldn’t she? Wasn’t like she had a whole load of velvets at her room in Paris that she could bury her face in whenever she wanted to. She had to </span>
  <em>
    <span>strategize</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“I had been about to say that, if you wanted me to wait in the carriage so you could be alone-” Beneath that confident, smooth front, she could hear it. The doubt that accompanied the slightest tensing of his shoulders. He didn’t want to </span>
  <em>
    <span>not</span>
  </em>
  <span> be with her, but he was going to hide that beneath a bunch of talk and give her the choice and pretend like he had no stakes.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Really, like he was fooling anyone. He had to get better at that.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re not getting off that easily.” She nuzzled into his coat further, as if to make a point. As soon as she said it, he relaxed against her. “You know,” she trailed off, eyes fixed ahead at a point not even she was sure of, wondering whether it would be possible for what she was going to say to get lost to the crashing waves, but Philippe was looking at her intently, and she knew she had to push on, gripping onto his arm for everything that it was worth even as she kept her voice steady and cool. “When I-When I go off, it isn’t that I don’t like you. I mean, I </span>
  <em>
    <span>don’t</span>
  </em>
  <span>-”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Obviously.”</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“-But it isn’t about that. You’re...you’re not bad. When you’re asleep. Snoring.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I do not-”</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>She gave him a pointed look. “I know at least five servants that’ll say different in a court of law.”</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“Five </span>
  <em>
    <span>former</span>
  </em>
  <span> servants, if they testify.” He paused. “You’re worse.”</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“Damn right, and you chose it. So don’t expect any pity from me there.” If he was going to chase her for a year until she decided he was worth a shot, he had to deal with the consequences. “The consequences” sometimes including snoring. Among other things.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>He gave an easy laugh. “Oh, believe me, </span>
  <em>
    <span>mon cher</span>
  </em>
  <span>, I never do.” Then, he sobered, leaning over to brush a kiss against her forehead. “Margrid-I was never unaware of what choosing this would mean. I knew very well who I was dealing with.”</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>She was quiet then. She didn’t know what to say, Hell. So, instead, she just continued to hold onto his arm, fingers splaying against his sleeve.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>They were silent for a time after that, taking in the world around them. If she was another woman, someone with a talent for drawing, who could spend hours and hours with nothing to do but sketch her world (not Margrid’s world, with its grays and dull browns, but the pastel world of the bourgeois or the gilded one of the aristocracy), she would sit down and sketch it out in jewel-toned colors, display it in her room so that she would keep it with her. (She wasn’t sure whether a canvas could hold Philippe. She’d seen portraits of him, busts of him, but none of them quite </span>
  <em>
    <span>got</span>
  </em>
  <span> it. Philippe was made to be in motion, always.) So, instead, she tried to capture it in her mind as best as she could, the blue of the water and the blue of the sky, the horizon between them, the stark white rocks, the roar of the ocean.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Everything that she could look back to in twenty years, when she was older, when it would all be faded.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>(A part of her, a small part, imagined Philippe by her side then, probably aging with the same annoying level of cheerfulness that she’d long since associated with him while she would be racked with aches and pains. Which was stupid because she didn’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>want</span>
  </em>
  <span> to put up with Philippe as an old man.)</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>A breeze swept alongside her, fresh, sharp, and salty, and against her own will, she found her mouth twitching upwards. It really was a good spot.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“I believe that’s a smile,” he said, a smirk edging along his face.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“Fuck off,” she said. She wasn’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>smiling</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Her facial muscles just had a spasm. It was an impulse. Like when a horse swished its tail to bat away flies.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“Astonishing, I might have brought a smile to the face of the formidable Margrid Arnaud, stone-faced defender of the Revolution. Is the sky about to fall down around us?” He looked upwards in mock horror, as if in waiting.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“It might around </span>
  <em>
    <span>you</span>
  </em>
  <span>, if you keep up.” From where he walked alongside her, she nudged him with her shoulder, not enough to seriously throw him off balance (she wasn’t sure she could anyway, given how fucking tall the man was), but enough to emphasize her point.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“Threatening a </span>
  <em>
    <span>Prince du Sang</span>
  </em>
  <span>?” He tutted. “Hardly acceptable.” Then, he swerved to return the motion, not using the full strength she knew he was capable of.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“We’re both equal now, </span>
  <em>
    <span>Citoyen</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” she snapped back, already readying herself to respond even before she’d fully fallen back. “And you’re saying a lot for a man who’s close to a high cliff.” And then, to emphasize her point, delivered a perfectly timed and executed slam.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“You would miss me,” he said, and then, realizing the shaky ground he was treading, added, “And you need me for the trip back.” Then, as if he remembered that they were in the middle of something, nudged her.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“I can swim.” Followed by a satisfying shove, which would have been more satisfying if he wasn’t tall enough that it only really made him lose a step.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>They continued like that for several more minutes, play-fighting with one another in a way that polite society in France and England alike wouldn’t understand, arms still linked together, neither one of them seriously harming one another but neither one of them willing to give in, until it ended with both of them laughing. Philippe’s laughs rolled out easily, lightly, hers was more a cackle that sounded rough and foreign in her throat.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>(Funny. Whenever she thought of the few times she’d laughed, at least since she was a child, she thought of Philippe.)</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Then her hands were framing his face, pulling him in for a short, breathless kiss. Most of the time, when they kissed, it was in passion, their respective schedules giving very little time for anything else. And she was fine with it, because they could never really have anything else. Not that would want anything else. But this kiss…it was soft, softer than she’d meant it to be. Not passionate, no fire in it. No bite. Not even the rush of sneaking kisses just out of eyeshot. Just…appreciation, she guessed. Or something like it.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>When they parted, their faces stayed close together, Philippe’s fingers running lightly along her jawline, hers running through his hair. Words edged along the tip of her tongue, words that she knew had the possibility of getting dangerous fast, and in order to prevent them from escaping, touched her nose to his, extending the kiss even when their lips weren’t touching. He closed his eyes, leaning his face against hers, reciprocating before kissing her again. The two of them spent several long moments pressing short, chaste kisses to one another’s mouths and faces, touching and nuzzling, holding their foreheads against one another after it was over.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Moving didn’t feel important then, walking on didn’t feel important, London and Paris both distant memories. More important than anything else was keeping the two of them like this, for as long as possible, in the sort of hazy, content world where this was something that they could do openly.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“We should go,” he said, his voice a steady purr that was at odds with going anywhere as opposed to leaning against his forehead more. “It’s nearly sunset, and we have to walk back.”</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>She murmured something in assent, causing him to kiss her forehead in response. They still didn’t turn back to leave until several minutes later, when they finally broke apart enough to turn around. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>They were silent on the trip back, though she continued to lean on his shoulder. Their arms no longer linked, instead, she grabbed onto his hand, his palm warm in comparison to the wind which, with the coming of sunset, was starting to come back with a vengeance. (Fucking </span>
  <em>
    <span>England</span>
  </em>
  <span>.) He was going to be smug about this afterward, she knew, but, then again, she guessed he’d earned it. He </span>
  <em>
    <span>had</span>
  </em>
  <span> taken her for a Hell of an outing. And, when they were back to the real world, it wasn’t like she would have the chance to do it again soon, anyway. Even when they slept together, there was little enough room for just </span>
  <em>
    <span>being</span>
  </em>
  <span> together like that.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>As she prepared to get into the carriage, she looked back at the cliffs. Waves of orange and strawberry clouds hung over the sky in ribbons, painting the waters below them in gold and a faint, dim blue. The cliffs themselves were dark shadows looming across the landscape, anticipating night. The birds had gone to sleep for the night, flying away to wherever their nests were, leaving only the rushing waves. Somewhere, on the other side of that mass of water was France. Somewhere, even more distant, were Paris, Strasbourg, the world that she knew, the streets she walked. The print shop. Palais Royal. They were still there, even if she wasn't. It was weird, thinking of the place having a life outside of her. Like everyone should have turned into statues until she came back. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>And on the other side of her, there was Philippe, already seated in the carriage, who was warm and solid and sometimes made her laugh and-</p><p> </p><p>Paris was familiar, but it wasn't home, not really. She hadn't had a home since she was kicked out of the convent, not until-</p><p> </p><p>Not until Louis Philippe Joseph. Fuck him. </p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She turned back, piling in opposite Philippe, their feet brushing against each other and, despite the two of them having just spent more time kissing one another than they’d spent looking at the cliffs, she pulled away, the contact suddenly too intimate.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“When will we be back in London?” She asked, looking out the window as the landscape rolled by them leisurely. They’d had their fun, now it was a matter of readjusting to the other world. Not the Real World, because that would always be Paris for her. But the world that was real for them then. The world of London and society.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“Actually…” He said, “I thought that the trip back, at this time of the evening, would be too far. I had a man call ahead to an inn nearby. We’ll stay the night there.”</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>That got her attention, and she broke her staring match with the English countryside to look at him then, “You mean we’re not going back tonight?”  </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“Not tonight, no. Unless, of course,” he tilted his head upwards, the distinctive smirk that he had whenever he knew he had her edging its way along his mouth, “You miss it that much. In which case, I’m sure we could-“</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“No,” Margrid said, shaking her head, “No. I just thought, since you love it so much-”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“A rest might be useful. And, of course, if it should become known, it might be of use to my image as a man of the people. Princes,” he shook his head, “Rarely have such opportunities. Though you might have to make certain sacrifices: I hardly have the proper entourage for a full night’s stay, I left my valet behind in London. So, if the task isn’t too deplorable for you…”</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“I can get you dressed in the morning.” She had enough experience getting everything off, getting them on wouldn’t be too much of a change. It was just a matter of putting her mind to work.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“Excellent.”</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“Sure they’ll be alright with the two of us? As a man and a woman-“</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Gold speaks. It hardly matters whether it’s on your finger or in your purse. However,” he said, “If they ask, you’re my wife.”</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>She found herself squirming in her seat, mulling things over. He really had taken her for a day out, completely away from the society she knew he loved, just because he knew she wasn’t happy in London. And then he’d gotten a room at an inn, just like a normal person (the kind of person that she always thought she would be with, if she was going to end up with anyone, not that she ever put a great deal of stock in </span>
  <em>
    <span>that</span>
  </em>
  <span>), and, while she was sure Orléans would never admit it, just like there were a hundred things she would never admit, she had the suspicion he did it specifically to give her a taste of another life. One where she’d gone for someone that she could go for walks with, one where they could spend the night in an inn without worrying about gossip, like any other couple, or without worrying about how many servants to bring along.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>It was…nice. Not a word she liked to use with Orléans, not when she knew that he never did </span>
  <em>
    <span>anything</span>
  </em>
  <span> without having at least some thought of what he could gain by it (sometimes she could practically hear the gears whirling in his mind as he weighed the benefits of one idea against another, like an automaton of a swan deciding which fish to take), but it was.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>To take herself away from everything that that line of thought would lead her to, she shifted, moving herself over to Orléans’ side of the carriage and settling beside him without saying a word. He was totally nonplussed, his hand moving instinctively moved to her arm.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“Thank you, by the way,” she said, looking off to the side even as she cuddled into him further. “For that. This.”</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“Has it reconciled you to England?” He took her palm, kissing it while looking at her intently.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s not all bad,” she said, turning her attention to him.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>He kissed her again, this time on the mouth, before touching his nose to hers again, mirroring their positions from before. “That’s all I hoped to hear.”  </span>
</p><p>
  
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>~One day, I want someone to love me as much as Louis Philippe Joseph loved London. Because that man REALLY, really loved London, to the point where one of the reasons his relationship with his cousin was so poor was because, as a Prince of the Blood, if Philippe wanted to go out of the country, the king had to sign off on it. Which Philippe HATED, because it impeded his trips to London. </p><p>~Something that I wanted to bring in but didn't have the space for: During the time this is happening, Philippe's VERY first mistress would have been in London as well. Rosalie Duthé moved there shortly before the Revolution and would have been moving in similar circles, continuing to captivate wealthy men and posing for pictures well into her thirties and forties. Since Margrid's already HAD to put up with Philippe's former mistresses in Paris, with Genlis and Elliot, it wouldn't really be SURPRISING, but it's something I had at the back of my mind for One More Reason Margrid REALLY Hates London. </p><p>~In London's defense, I WILL say that, during the 24 hours I was there, the weather was very nice. </p><p>~The dog shit is inspired from real events; though it happened in broad daylight in a certain Irish city center as opposed to London at night. (To the person who let their dog shit in front of the door at Penney's and didn't clean it up: I have some choice words for you.) </p><p>~If you haven't seen the Silver Swan automaton that Margrid's narration references, I HIGHLY recommend looking it up. Both to understand what she's talking about and because it is a genuinely awesome bit of engineering. It should have been in London around this time, though it changed a few hands before winding up in the Paris International Exhibition in 1867. It's possible that Margrid would have at least heard of it in London, especially given that she's of a nerdy enough bent to appreciate it. It is currently in the Bowes Museum and is still working to this day, being wound up once a day. (And if anything ever happens to change it, I will probably legitimately cry.)</p></blockquote></div></div>
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